Return of the Caveman

Recession does strange things to people.While for the majority its all gloom , for some rare ones it gives a glimmer of hope. On a sunday morning a few days back , as I lay on my back contemplating my bleak future , a ray of hope came to me in the form of a report on the sunday supplement of the Times of India.Like all other reports on the garishly colourful but extremely informative sunday supplement , this report too was spiritually and mentally uplifting , infusing in me the "Korbo ,Lorbo,Jeetbo Re" spirit .The report is a highly scientific study on the growing trend of men sporting a stubble or in some cases a full beard.The writer , while dissecting the trend under the context of current socio-economic conditions , quotes a particular psychologist, who has the following pearls of wisdom to offer
"During the times of recession ,women tend to prefer security over flamboyance and hence would prefer the caveman over the metro-sexual man".
Yes! Yes! (pumping my fist) The final nail on the coffin of the metro-sexual man has been stuck!O you metro-sexual male , with your manicures and pedicures , your designer clothes and "I am so cool attitude", O all you worshippers of the stammering king,get ready to get you waxed asses whipped by the Caveman cause the women of the species have finally discovered good taste.Things have come a full circle .The Caveman , with 2 of his shirt buttons open, exposing the amazonian rain forest on his chest and with a cigarette dangling from his lips, is back with a vengeance. As recession brings out the basic instincts of womankind , I can only hope we see the return of the real Indian male as epitomized by the great Mithunda in one of his classics -
"Dekhne mein bewda,
Daurne mein ghoda
Aur maarne mein haathoda"
The Caveman is here to stay ( and so is the recession!)

P.S-
At this happy hour , my only lament is that recession should have occured 4 years back when I was an engineering student because that was the period when I had the closest resemblance to the Neanderthal man.

Haikus on blogger's block

I

A blinking black line,
Stares at me from fields of white
Mocks my empty mind.


II

With wine on my breath,
And fingers on my keyboard
To write or to sleep?

III

Boredom, mistaken
As zen state of nothingness
Creates bad haikus

Thoughts on home

"Homeward bound
I wish I was
Homeward bound
Home, where my thought's escaping
Home, where my music's playing
Home, where my love life's waiting
Silently for me"
-Simon and Garfunkel ( "Homeward Bound")

After wishing to be homeward bound for what seemed like zillions of years , I finally took a flight to Guwahati after a tiresome assignment in Saudi Arabia.The idea of home evokes different emotions in different people.For me the idea of home has always been along the lines of the Simon and Garfunkel song above.It is a place which gives you the comfort of familiarity.The joy of sights , sounds and smells that you grew up with , the joy of laughing over the jokes you have heard countless times before , the pleasure of getting up late and then playing your music at full volume.Home also means eating fish for both lunch and dinner ("so sad he doesn't get to eat fish in Pune"), lunch invitations from long-forgotten acquaintances and getting updated on the extra-marital affairs of each and every male character in the the never-ending television soaps.It also means confronting questions about my marriage plans with my beer belly often acting as an indicator that here is someone pretty well "settled" and eating well and hence needs to get even more "settled" into a life of marital bliss.
Life in Assam at times seems to be caught in a time warp.Ofcourse there is Guwahati , which seems to be like a child on a growth spurt as a result of a hormone injection.However,stepping out of the chaos of Guwahati , there is always the sense that things havent changed at all.The roads are still the same ( atleast in lower Assam), there are still enough power cuts to keep the generator and inverter business running and the newspapers are still filled with reports of road mishaps and shootouts between extremist and Army jawans.
I was fortunate to make a trip to the extremely picturesque Manas National Park on the Indo-Bhutan border. Its a place of such breathtaking beauty that even if you have no interest in wildlife you will come back with memories you can cherish for a lifetime.Its one of those places which redefines your ideas of happiness and makes you feel like Christopher McCandless of the movie "Into the Wild".I also visited this quaint little Bhutanese town called Panbang which seems straight out of a picture postcard.It has made me even more certain that Bhutan will be the place I would like to settle down at some point in my life.I guess with my pot-belly , it would suit me to be a Buddhist monk as it wont take much effort for me to resemble the chubby monk which appears on the labels of all bottles of Old Monk rum.
As I write this , my mom is packing my bags for my return trip to Pune , stacking it with my favourite "boga pitha" - though its a different matter that all that will remain of it after making the long tortuous journey to Pune would be a mass of sweet white powder.Its time now to return to the big bad world..the world of formal shirts, swipe cards ,insipid food in tin boxes and stale canteen coffee...of getting up at 7 A.M and rummaging through my wardrobe for a pair of clean socks...of coming back home and discovering that your Kaamwali Bai has decided to take a casual leave for the 4th time in the same week..such is life!!

Poems by a fan of Neruda and Mithunda -3

Belief

I believe..
In the dampness on my pillow,
That still smells of the rain
On your wet hair.

I believe..
In the shattered window pane,
That trembles to the wind
On a cold February evening.

I believe..
In the creaky old bed,
Where we lay entwined
Like creepers on a moss covered wall.

I believe..
When there is nothing left to believe,
All that remains
And all that lingers
Is just emptiness, and
The sound of rain on my tin roof.

P.S - Happy New Year to all..i had an awesome booze filled new year bash at alibagh..discovered for the first time that women staring at my perfectly spherical beer belly makes me feel like a sex object.

1920 and a trip down the horror lane

Here is a piece of news which I believe is "sansani khej" and "hairat angrez" enough to be flashed as breaking news on the ticker at the bottom of the screen on India TV with the following words "Breaking news: Polka ne kiya apni blog ka update". Yes I am back. With my finger exersises confined to writing codes and trying to pick up rice with chopsticks in Taiwan, blogging was relegated to second division in my priority of things.However 5 months is a long time and since I have made no terminator style announcement like " I will be back" ( or the more desi " ro mat pagli mein laut ke aaonga" ) , I thought it would be wise to assure my readership ( if there is any ) that I am still very much alive.
Talking about being alive , I don't understand the entire concept of fear of death when being dead could be so much fun. Being a dedicated fan of Hindi horror , the idea of being a ghost with a green rubber mask who attacks buxom young ladies in bathrooms has always seemed an exciting after-life career option.All the credit however goes to the Ramsay brothers. Ever since the Wright brothers made aviation history , rarely has history seen a more determined band of brothers. For decades India's first family of horror has dedicated themselves to cause of desi horror thus giving birth to the most original and avant-garde genre of Hindi filmdom. For an entire generation of Indians growing up in the age of video cassettes (VCRs) , childhood memories would be incomplete without the old deserted haveli , the sex-starved voluptuous heroines who takes showers at midnight , the lecherous thakurs ( mostly Raja Murad) , the ghost in rubber masks and gloves and the ancient-looking watchman with the lantern.For those with finer sensibilities who might twitch their noses at the very mention of Ramsay Brothers , let me produce the following exhibit as a testimony to the fact that the Ramsay Brother's were always ahead of their times.

http://in.youtube.com/watch?feature=related&v=KV7bIudfgY0

Scene: The Thakur lies in bed with his mistress.The "Bhatakti Atma" signals his arrival with the mandatory swinging open of the Haveli gates and lightning in the sky. The Thakur looks at his mistress and then utters what could well be called one of the most unforgetable dialogues in horror history " Yeh to pehle se hi chudi hui hai..kahi bhoot aake meri gaand na maar de".Thus its the Ramsay Brother's who brings out from the coffins the the taboo topic of ghost homesexuality ( or was it bisexuality?), proving that inhabitant of the netherworld also have varied sexual preferences as opposed to the Hollywood conservative portayal of ghost being always straight.
However with the advent of sattelite television and Ram Gopal Verma , the popularity of the Ramsay Brothers saw a sharp decline. The Bhatakti Atmas embraced the age of globalisation. They started wearing designer labels and even started speaking in English.Unable to cope with such an assault on my senses , I decided to avoid the entire genre.However , a few weeks back I saw a movie poster which i belived could help me regain my faith in Hindi horror. The poster depicted a young couple staring at a pretty white castle from a distance with the movie title "1920" written below it.Although the castle was way too opulent to remind me of the old Ramsay havelis , yet I felt maybe I should give this movie a try.Morevoer the director happened to be Vikram Bhatt , who is one of India's most original directors. Here original refers to being faithful to the original. Unlike several other Bollywood directors who try to improve upon the original with their own aritstic flourishes, Vikram Bhatt follows the original storyline through its crest and troughs. In the process he creates what electronic engineers might called a hi-fidelity output waveform though an amplifier.
The story of 1920 revolves around a young couple who moves into a beautiful deserted castle somewhere in India although the castle seems to be straight out of a European picture postcard.The husband plans to pull down the castle to make way for a hotel.His plans however irks the resident evil spirit , who has been living peacefully in that castle for decades.However , with no Mamta Banerjee or Arundhati Roy to support his cause, he has no option but to resort to terror tactics to hold on to his property.He unleashes a series of nocturnal ghostly acts on the hapless wife.The wife , clearly unaccustomed to Ramsay movies fails to decipher the ulterior motives of the resident evil spirit who was now getting as determined as Mamta Banerjee to stop the evil forces of rampant "hotel-ization".Meanwhile , the wife befriends a father in the neighbourhood church who quite happily agrees to rescue the damsel in distress. Ofcourse the father has a French beard which is compulsory for all Christian characters in Hindi films.What follows can be called a cover version of "The Exorcist" ( Bollywood prefers calling it inspiration).As events unfold we discover that the ghost , once a rebel who looked an emaciated version of Mangal Pandey was hanged inside the castle for his rebellious behaviour.After that he joins the Bajrang Dal which was the only recourse left for rebels like him ( not mentioned in the film).Now faced with the imminent danger of losing his property , he does what any self-respecting ghost must do. He enters the body of our pretty young heroine ( i mean his soul does) .This act gives rise to bouts of hysterical behaviour in the otherwise sedate lady.( which is very obvious when the soul of a Bajrang Dal activist enters the body of a convent educated page-3 model).At this moment of crisis enters our priest from the neighbourhood church , armed with the Cross , Holy water, Holy Bible and all other paraphernelia needed for the exorcism.Meanwhile , our rebel makes it known to the father that he will not take things lying down by painstakingly painting a goathead on the church walls.For those who have not grown up on death metal , a goathead inscribed in a pentagon is the symbol of satan. However to my dissapointment , the ghost refrains from belting out " The number of the Beast" from the top of the church.
So the battleground is ready.The audience awaits with bated breath as the clash of the titans ensues- the "Bajrangi" Atma versus The Exorcist. The Father , who has probably watched a pirated version of the Exorcist , has the initial upperhand.However our Bajrangi fights back , clearly pissed off at the prospect of a Christian priest trying to tame a Hindu ghost and that too a former rebel.As the hapless husband watches his dear wife performing gravity-defying Matrix-style acrobatics , our exorcist finally concedes defeat after being stabbed with a knife.At this moment , with both me and my roomate collectively cheering on the husband with "come on man..get out your Hanuman Chalisa..Yes..you can do it!!", the husband finally gets into the act. Holding on to his wife with all his might and by chanting the Hanuman Chalisa , he finally regains control of his wife and our Bajrangi soul decides to leave the body of the heroine and move on to greener pastures ( maybe a Lok Sabha BJP ticket from Orissa).

Altough I was a bit dissapointed that there was no lovemaking scene between the husband and his possesed wife ( can it be called a threesome?), i must admit "1920" hepled me regain my faith in the Hindi horror genre. Hindi horror is trully alive and kicking ( our brains)!!

Mission " Rescue Assam"

Scene: Drunkard 1 is sitting on the floor.Dressed in his bermudas and a light yellow vest ( which may have been white once upon a time ), he dutifully performs the task of mixing the drinks. He lives up to his reputation of being a good bartender.Years of practice have made him a master at the art of mixing the right quantity of water, soda and whiskey.A man revered in his college circle for his extraordinary ability to drink red rum in neat pegs , he now sits with his head resting on the bed and his eyes contemplating his own pot-belly.Drunkard 2 , dressed in a bermuda and an Iron Maiden T-shirt sits on the bed.He is the official DJ of the night.His eyes scans the entire hard disk of the laptop in front of him , as he searches for the next track.As the screaming guitar solos from ' Afraid to shoot strangers ' draws to an end , drunkard-2 quickly searches for the next track.His eyes fall on a folder titled " Bhupen Hazarika".A bottle of whiskey lies in the centre of the room..with just enough manna from heaven left to make three small pegs.
Meanwhile , Drunkard-3 makes frequent visits to the room to take small gulps from his glass.He has the toughest job in the party tonight.He is charge of the pork.As he sweats out in the kitchen , he curses the other two and thinks aloud as to why he made the blunder of publicising his cullinary skills.
Drunkard-1:"After long time , it feels good to drink man..nothing like college buddies.."
Drunkard-2:" Nothing like this man..sitting on the floor..dressed only in our chaddi-baniyan...absolutely nothing man...just like the good ol' times"
Drunkard-1: " Sometimes I feel i will leave all these stuff and go back to the hills...Oi change the song..man am gettin all nostalgic today..something in Assamese"
Drunkard-2 in a rare moment of courage and inspiration puts on Bhupen Hazarika's "Aami axomiya nohou dukhiya" ( which translates to 'We Assamese will never be poor')

Drunkard-1: "Yes ! yes! Nohou dukhiya k*** ( yes! yes! we will never be poor)"
Drunkard-2: "Yes! You are right..we have everything..tea ,oil , Zubeen Garg..(motioning to the kitchen ) oi bring over the pork..when will we eat if we can't have it with the maal*?"
Drunkard-3 obliges and brings over a few pieces of pork on a steel plate.Taking a quick gulp from his glass , he motions to the others to pour out the remaining whiskey.Now finally relieved from his duties , he offers his inputs to this intellectualy stimulating discussion.
Drunkard-3 : 'what will you call people who have not experienced the heavenly taste of pork?"
Drunkard-1 : 'Backward k***..what do these people know what good cuisine is , huh? Nothin like north-east man..no casteism..religious difference..see how everyone enjoys momos..wait and see..10 yrs from now I will return to Assam.."
Drunkard-3: "( with a sarcastic laugh) 10 years from now Assam will be a part of Bangladesh"
Drunkard-2 : " Yes..all for this fuckinn' central government and the terrorists..we got to do something man"
Drunkard-1: " we have to drive them out..each and every single one...soboke khedim k***."
Drunkark-3 ( sensing a change in the atmosphere )" Hey forget all these stuff man..what happened to the new HR chick you were eying at office?"
Drunkard-1 ( laughing) " Fuck that bitch..there is nothing like our own chicks"
Drunkard-2 " Yes man nothin like our chicks of Handique college* on the day of Saraswati Puja"
Drunkard-1 " So lets raise a toast for them..Joi Aai Axom"
Drunkard-2 & 3 (in unison) : " Joi Aai Axom!!`"

We reach the point where memories of drunken revelry blurs into the reality of a hot scorching sun shining thorugh your window pane on piles of unwashed dishes and a floor littered with cigarette packets and bottles.However one thing I can say with certaininty is that Assam was saved yet again due to the efforts of 3 brave and patriotic young men.

Footnotes:
K*** - A popular 4 lettered Assamese slang which can be used alternatively as adjective , adverb and conjuction.
Maal* - Popular term for alcohol
Handique college* - A girls college in Guwahati.

Poems by a fan of Neruda and Mithunda-2

Boxes


The kid in the box shaped apartment,
Stares at the sky through square windows.

The bored goldfish in the old aquarium,
Gazes at bored men in office cublicles.

The old lady in the empty room,
Seeks nirvana through her television set.

My soul dwells among boxes.
It floats in a world,
Where space is defined by walls,
And the heart is cursed to carry
The weight of emptiness.

I can feel my skin harden,
And form walls around my soul.
The smoothness giving way to sharp edges
that cuts through the air.

I have morphed into a box
Like the missing block in a jigsaw puzzle,
I finally fall into place.